Caste in the classroom

August 9, 2023: Nanguneri: Chinnadurai, a Dalit student in Class 11 in a government school is attacked and maimed for calling out caste oppression by dominant caste schoolmates.

February 12, 2025: Sivagangai: “How dare someone from your caste ride a vehicle in front of us?” Ayyasamy, a third-year BSc student at Sivagangai Government College was violently assaulted for riding a bike, and fled with his life.

March 10, 2025: Ariyanaayagipuram: Devendraraaj, a budding kabaddi champion is brutally attacked after upper caste men object to the victory of his Dalit team.

July 31, 2025: Arumugamangalam: Kavin Selvaganesh is brutally murdered for being in love with a girl from another caste

In schools and colleges across Tamil Nadu, caste-based discrimination hasn’t disappeared, it has only changed form. More polished in some areas, still blatant in others.

In many villages, caste identity is visible in every aspect of life, and with that visibility comes segregation. Dalit and oppressed students are still made to stand apart, still called by slurs, still forced to clean toilets by teachers.

From schools to government offices, from temples to media institutions, caste dominance runs deep. The so-called “independent” pillars of democracy, Parliament, Judiciary, Media, and Bureaucracy, instead of dismantling caste, often reinforce it.

People ask, “Who looks at caste these days?” But the truth is, caste killings, atrocities against Dalits, and the oppression of marginalised students still persists.

We must record what’s happening now. Because if we don’t, this history will be erased, just as the love, lives, struggles, and resistance of the oppressed have been erased before. Look at how the Buddhist era was called a “dark age,” or how the caste system of the Chola period is glorified instead of questioned. The history of the oppressed has always been buried.

Even today, in many places, marginalised people aren’t allowed to wear slippers, enter temples, or walk on public paths to graveyards. Children from oppressed castes are insulted by dominant caste students, denied the right to cook in schools, and deliberately failed when they perform well. If they fall in love, it’s branded “fake” or “drama,” the caste version of ‘Love Jihad’.

Since childhood, I’ve faced caste discrimination. But I never had caste awareness until I began working through my camera and reading Ambedkar and Periyar. Only then did I begin to understand this society, and start walking alongside my people.

During my college days, I was part of the football team. But my teammates never allowed me to play on the field. I was always made to sit outside, and spent my time watching others play. I never got the chance to develop my skills -- if I don’t get to play, how can I learn?

Discrimination works in different ways. It first denied me the opportunity, and then used that to claim that I wasn’t good enough to play.

In India, even love is political. Vincent Raj, founder of Evidence, an organisation fighting caste discrimination, says that Tamil Nadu has witnessed 65 caste-based ‘honour’ killings in the past eight years, yet only eight have ended with favourable verdicts.

To see other humans as equals, that is the most basic human value. Yet, I don’t know when our society will rise to that level. In the few instances that someone from a marginalised community progresses, their dignity is attacked, their stature crushed and their homes brought down with bulldozers.

In December 2022, in Vangaivayal village, Pudukkottai district, human faeces were dropped into a Dalit neighbourhood’s water tank, allegedly by upper caste men. The incident brought to the fore other prevalent caste discrimination practices in the area, including the "two-tumbler system" in local tea shops (separate tumblers for Dalits and other castes), and the barring of Dalits from entering the local Ayyanar temple.

Only 12 Dalit families live there, now struggling in the aftermath of the incident in which no one has been held accountable. To reach Vangaiyayal one must cross 12 police checkpoints, and journalists are still denied access.

Justice, for the oppressed, always comes after endless struggle.

As I finish writing this in December 2025, two sanitation workers in Trichy have died cleaning underground drains. The cycle continues.

Kavin Selvaganesh was brutally murdered on July 31, 2025 in an ‘honour’ killing. He was just 27 years old. An engineering graduate, he worked as a software engineer in Chennai. His parents, S. Tamilselvi and Chandrasekar, live on Therku Maada street in Aarumugamangalam, Eral, Thoothukudi district.

Kavin and Subashini had been school friends who went on to fall in love. One day, Kavin visited her to check on his grandfather’s health -- Subashini was working as a Siddha doctor in the same hospital.

A little later, her brother, Sujit appeared and told Kavin that their parents wanted to meet him. Sujit asked him to come along on his bike. Just two streets later, Sujit stopped, pulled out a knife and murdered Kavin in cold blood.

It’s important to note that Kavin, Subashini, and Sujit had been close friends for years. Yet, as Sujit attacked him, he said, “a Pallar [Scheduled Caste] boy wants a girl from our family? Only now will my parents be at peace.”

Those were alleged to be his exact words before he killed Kavin. Both of Sujit’s parents are police officers.

Kavin was an engineering graduate. Society lives under the dangerous illusion that education, employment, financial stability can erase caste. In Kavin’s case it didn’t.

Since Kavin’s death, I’ve felt like a walking corpse. Witnessing a caste killing changes something inside you. It strips away your sense of safety, clarity, even identity. I keep trying to find myself again, to return to who I was before coming into contact with this kind of violence. It’s hard. It’s painful.

The grief isn’t only for Kavin or his family. It’s for the part of me that feels permanently altered. Kavin wasn’t just a victim; he was a light, a rare warmth, someone who made others feel seen, safe, and valued. A genuinely good human being. That’s what makes this loss unbearable. The world didn’t just lose a life; it lost someone who made life better for others.

This is the third ‘honour’ killing I’ve personally witnessed. Almost a year ago, I covered the murder of Praveen in Pallikaranai. Kavin’s death mirrors that horror. Both were so brutally attacked that their mothers couldn’t even recognise them. These weren’t just murders; they were acts of erasure.

What stays with me most is the strength of Kavin’s mother. In the midst of unimaginable pain, she carried herself with a calm resilience that words can’t describe. Perhaps it’s her years as a teacher that gave her the emotional strength to endure. When I met her after Kavin’s burial, her home was silent, heavy with grief. She was broken, yes, but determined to fight for justice, for her son, for truth.

Senior journalist and comrade Jeyarani, who has long written about caste oppression, told me, “Our society hasn’t changed at all, comrade. The only difference now is that, because of social media and CCTV, some truths are visible.” She added that Kavin’s case, like that of Udumalai Shankar, gained attention only because of video evidence. Many others go unnoticed. “Now, honour killing has become cultural,” she said. “Like festivals or rituals, it has become normalised.”

This so-called “punishment” for inter-caste love or defiance is now treated as a cultural act. The facts of the Scheduled Caste /Scheduled Tribes Act or legal consequences never influence their thinking; their mindsets don’t change.

After the rise of social media, these casteist thoughts have become visible. Young boys, barely grown, speak casually about killing their sisters’ lovers. That’s the frightening reality we live in.

The casualty ward of the Tirunelveli government hospital is always in chaos. In the southern districts of Tamil Nadu, especially in Tirunelveli, news of Dalit students and youth becoming victims of caste-based violence never seems to stop. The ICU is constantly full, that’s how grave the situation is.

When I went to meet Devendraraaj, as usual I was stopped by the police. I managed to enter and take photographs only with the help of comrades from Left-wing parties. The police bombarded me with questions, and it was the communist cadres present there who helped me get through. The tension at the hospital made it impossible to speak with Devendraraaj’s father that day. I left for Madurai and returned the next day to record his statement.

The victim’s father, Thanga Ganesh, is from Vallakulam village, Ariyanayakipuram, in Karungulam Taluk, Thoothukudi district. He said, “I hadn’t even reached home after sending my son off on the bus when I got the news, that three men from a nearby village had attacked him. I rushed there and took him to the hospital. If I had gone to work that day, it could have been worse. My son might not have survived.”

He is referring to the attack on Devenraraaj on March 10, 2025. Its genesis lay in a kabaddi match held in the neighbouring village where the Dalit team had won in both categories.

The victory of a Dalit team was enough to provoke caste violence. As Devendraraaj was on his way to his exams, they stopped the bus, dragged him out, and slashed him on the road. When his father told me this, a shiver ran through my body. This violence was not about a game, it was about power. The idea that a Dalit student cannot win over dominant-caste boys in kabaddi is what lies beneath this brutal act. And Devendraraaj, ironically, is known as one of the best kabaddi players in his region.

The doctor told me that he had deep cuts on his head and hands, one of which was severe. His fingers had been partly severed and would take two to three months to heal. “The fingers must fuse properly before plastic surgery can be done,” the doctor said.

Devendraraaj is the eldest child of his parents. “I work in a brick kiln. I have two children. Devendraraaj is my eldest, he’s studying at a school in Palayamkottai. My younger one is a daughter. Both my wife and I go to the kiln every day,” said Thanga Ganesh.

He went on to speak quietly about his own life: “I had no awareness about caste when I was young. None of our teachers ever spoke about Ambedkar or Periyar. After my Class 10 exam, because of our financial struggles, I applied to an ITI [vocational technical training institute] to learn motor mechanics. The admission fee was 650 rupees, even that was hard to arrange. My mother borrowed money from others.

“I went there full of dreams, holding that money, eager to learn. But when I got there, the officers called out two or three of our names and said there were no seats. They pushed us out and locked the gates. I was one of them. I didn’t understand why. I cried in front of that gate. They said it was because I had fewer marks, but if that was true, why did I get an admission card in the first place? That question haunted me for years.”

The street in Nanguneri, Thirunnelveli was deserted when we arrived. Chinnadurai’s house was padlocked. Blood was splattered across the porch, dried, with bloody handprints visible. The stench of blood lingered even as we entered. Chinnadurai’s blood seemed present everywhere, the raw stench still palpable.

Inside his school bag, we found test papers with 100 per cent marks, and an unfinished letter to the Principal. Chinnadurai was student in Class 11 in a government school; he was a sincere student who consistently performed well. His dedication earned him praise from teachers and the Principal, who once gathered students at the school entrance to commend Chinnadurai’s hard work and encourage others to emulate him.

But dominant caste classmates found this unacceptable as Chinnadurai belonged to a marginalised community. This was the main reason he was attacked.

Chinnadurai faced continuous oppression from fellow students, and often preferred to stay home and miss school. Finally, the Principal intervened, listened to his concerns, and obtained a written letter to pursue legal action. Disciplinary measures were taken against three upper caste students that day.

That same night, seven upper caste students, including three minors and four adults, went to Chinnadurai’s house. Three of them attacked him with a single sickle, repeatedly cutting him. His sister, who tried to help, was also injured. The brutality of the attack was unimaginable. This tragedy reveals the extent of caste hatred in schools and the violence that marginalised students endure.

Chinnadurai and his sister were admitted to Tirunelveli government hospital and kept in ICU under heavy protection. I was initially forbidden from visiting, but I entered with the political party members and the Untouchability Eradication Front who came to check on him. When I saw him, he had cuts across his hands, legs, and head, his body covered in poultice plaster from recent surgery. I was terrified for his recovery, yet his gentle smile, despite the pain, gave me hope.

In pain but determined to speak, Chinnadurai said the attack occurred the day he handed his unfinished letter to the Principal.

I offered words of consolation, took some photographs, and left with a heavy heart. Speaking with his mother was even more difficult. She had raised and educated her children alone, working as a domestic worker in the homes of some of the students who attacked Chinnadurai. She could not believe that those very students could commit such violence. She was exhausted and silent. I left shortly after.

This attack is a stark reminder that casteism remains deeply entrenched in schools.

Only after I started reading Ambedkar and Periyar did I understand it wasn’t about marks. I was rejected because of my caste.” Even today, through the photography workshops I conduct for school and college students, I meet many youngsters and engage with them. And I see that caste awareness among students is still painfully low.

What’s more worrying is their perception of reservation. Most of them view it negatively. Society has shaped their thinking to believe that reservation gives Dalit and Adivasi students 'privilege'. This is the state of our youth today.

Our education system fails to include meaningful lessons on these subjects. Even in government law colleges, teaching Ambedkar has become rare, and speaking about his ideas is often seen as controversial. I realised this through conversations with several law students.

Schools and colleges are supposed to shape responsible citizens, but even these spaces are steeped in caste discrimination. Textbooks may declare that “untouchability is a sin,” yet I have never once seen a teacher explain what that means in real life, or in the right social and political context.

For the past eight years, I have documented caste-based atrocities through photography. Working with SC and ST students in photography workshops allowed me to understand the oppression they face in schools and colleges through their experiences and constant communication.

Traveling with students, I have observed that every student who has faced caste oppression suffers ongoing mental distress and psychological trauma due to a lack of agency. I have experienced this first hand. When I was in Class 11, my classmates falsely accused me of something I had not done. I couldn’t understand why and broke down in tears. The incident left me deeply hurt, and I began skipping school. Even thinking of returning filled me with fear. My mother intervened, advocating for me and resolving the issue.

Later, in college, the administration refused to grant me my scholarship of 72,000 rupees. When I inquired, they said, “Why should our tax money pay for your expenses?” and sent me away. I didn’t even know the scholarship was my right. Only after working with people through photography, gaining political awareness from those experiences, and reading Ambedkar and Periyar did I understand the caste-driven nature of society and recognise my rights.

Through documenting marginalised communities and developing political awareness, I realised that the false accusations in school and denial of my scholarship occurred because I belong to a Scheduled Caste community. In educational spaces, marginalised students are often the first to be suspected when something goes missing. Many live with ongoing mental distress due to false accusations. Even today, reports surface of teachers forcing children of sanitation workers to clean toilets.

Caste-based discrimination persists throughout schools and colleges and our education system fails to correct this. In India, we’ve never had a ‘de-caste’ program. In 75 years after Independence, we’ve protected the caste system instead of dismantling it.

Look at Germany. After Nazi rule, they didn’t hide their crimes; they confronted them. Education reforms and ‘denazification’ helped an entire generation unlearn hate. Children were taught to apologize for the crimes of their ancestors. That’s how societies heal.

Overcoming these injustices requires immense emotional strength. Many students, fearful of repeated caste violence, remain silent, carrying their pain while trying to move forward.

Chinnadurai survived the attack on his life. When interviewed later, he said, “those who hurt me should also study well and reach good positions.” His forgiveness shows the innocence that this violent society doesn’t deserve.

On February 12, 2025, in Sivagangai district, a Dalit youth from Melappadavoor village in Manamadurai taluk was brutally attacked by upper caste men. They stopped him, hurled caste-based slurs, and said, “How dare someone from your caste ride a vehicle in front of us?” before assaulting him with weapons.

The victim, Ayyasamy, a third-year B.Sc student at Sivagangai Government College, was admitted to the government hospital in Madurai. I visited him two days later. He recalled, “They said, ‘a Paraiyar boy wants a Bullet [motorbike]? Ride it on our streets? Do you have that courage?’ Then they attacked me. They aimed their sickle at my neck, but I raised my hands to protect myself and got cut. When I ran, leaving my bike behind, they threw a knife at me. Luckily, my phone blocked it; otherwise, my leg would have been cut, and I couldn’t have escaped.”

His elder brother, Ponmuthu, told me that the assailants later vandalised their home. “Our progress has been bothering them for a long time,” he said.

During our conversation, Ayyasamy added that he is now determined to study harder and achieve positions of authority.

Across many districts, whenever oppressed communities achieve economic or social progress, they often face violent backlash.

In journalism, Dalit voices rarely enter newsrooms, and stories from marginalised communities seldom make headlines. Statistically, the percentage of Dalits in media decision-making is zero.

P. Sainath has written extensively on this. He says, “There is no doubt in my mind that the media are the most exclusionist institution in Indian democracy. You can look at all the other sectors - Legislature, Judiciary, Executive, Academia, whatever. There has been some representation of Dalits, however poor. In the media it is much more than poor. It is almost non-existent. India has had two Presidents who were Dalits. We have seen central ministers -- however few -- who were Dalits. There have been several Dalit Vice Chancellors of universities. There have been some Dalits who were Chief Ministers. There have been two Dalit Chief Justices of India (at a level where there are no reservations. So, it's not a question of merit).

“However, try finding a single Dalit Chief Sub-Editor in the newspaper universe, the national dailies. Or a Dalit anchor on television. You're going to be searching a long time. There is an unspoken viciousness and resistance to giving them representation. There is no quota or reservation. The media's social sensitivity is a hypocritical mess.”

When people like us document these realities, we are among the few, the rarest of the rare. And with that comes responsibility.

This story was originally reported in Tamil.